Naked Came the Florida Man

by Tim Dorsey

  “The other hemisphere of my brain is at the wheel.” Clang, clang, clang. “‘Mississippi queen!’ . . .” Clang, clang. “‘Fool for the city!’ . . . Remember the Chambers Brothers? ‘Time has come today!’ . . .” Clang, clang. He threw the cowbell back under the seat. “Enough of that shit. Coleman?”

  Coleman checked the list. “Homeland security.”

  “This is an important one,” said Serge. “They say that our main strategic weakness against the terrorists is failure of imagination. But I’m just the guy to fix that! Two words: toupee bomber. Are we on that one?”

  “Serge—”

  “Hold that thought,” said Serge. “We’re here.”

  The Plymouth pulled up to the edge of the Caloosahatchee, and everyone got out.

  “Is this the historic place?” asked Cheyenne.

  “Not the main one,” said Serge. “We need to build up to that or we could lapse into history shock. This is the Ortona Lock and Dam, part of a system of such structures that raise and lower boats traveling across the state on the one-hundred-and-fifty-four-mile-long Okeechobee Waterway. As opposed to, say, only forty-eight miles. I’m looking in your direction, Panama Canal.”

  “We’ve got a lock like this back near the motel,” said Cheyenne.

  Serge walked closer to the edge, carrying a paper sack.

  “What’s in the bag?” asked Kyle.

  “You’ll find out.” Serge drank in the vista. “I love locks for their engineering feats. And especially the whirlpools.”

  “Whirlpools?” asked Coleman.

  Serge nodded and aimed an arm. “When a boat’s coming over from the coast and enters the lock, valves are opened, and water from the high side flows into it, raising the vessel like a rubber duck in a bathtub. But so much fluid rushes inside that it creates a vast vortex just outside the lock’s upstream doors. In fact, this lock was recently closed two weeks for repairs because, among other things, serious whirlpools were forming inside the lock when lowering boats. Not good for the canoe people.”

  “Here comes a boat now,” said Cheyenne.

  “Let’s watch the whirlpool.” Serge led them up a path to the lock’s eastern doors. “I love watching whirlpools the way cats watch a toilet flush.”

  “The whirlpool’s starting,” said Coleman. “Wow, it’s getting big.”

  “I had no idea,” said Kyle. “Forget canoes. It’s a monster.”

  “Videos of these physics spectacles are all over YouTube, and someone just posted incredible footage from the Demopolis Lock in Alabama.” Serge pulled something from his paper bag. “Watch this!”

  “You carry a rubber duck around?” asked Cheyenne.

  “A close second behind the cowbell.” He heaved the yellow toy far out into the water.

  They all watched it splash, then rotate in a wide but tightening circle until it was violently sucked under.

  “Ta-da!” said Serge.

  “Uh, you do realize you just littered,” said Cheyenne.

  “What? Oh, shit! I usually play with it in the tub, so there’s rarely difficulty retrieving it. I wasn’t thinking.” Serge covered his face with his hands. “This negates my whole moment. I must atone.” He ran back along the bank and stared at the water and waited. Finally, a rubber duck popped to the surface inside the lock. He cupped hands around his mouth. “Hey, you in the boat! I need a big favor! I just accidentally littered because I was watching water like a house cat. See that rubber duck about to float by? If you could just snag the sucker, it would center my karma . . . Thanks.” Serge wiped his forehead. “Whew! Another close one! . . . Back to the car!”

  They drove a short distance until three people were standing beside a Plymouth, watching Serge standing proudly atop a small hill.

  “And this is one of the fabulous Ortona mounds, believed to have been created seventeen hundred years ago by the Calusa, who were the busy bees of early Florida, also digging a network of navigable canals . . . Back to the car!”

  Another short drive. Serge leaped from the Plymouth. “You’ve been properly warmed up, so here it is! But first look around and let the context sink in: nothing, deserted, not even cars on the road. The closest thing to anything is that remote and idle quarry we passed on the way in. And I can’t get enough of it! Dig!” Serge walked fifty yards out into a roadside field that was blanketed in yellow. He called back to the gang: “Florida, literally the Land of Flowers, and all these beautiful babies around me are the state’s official wildflower, coreopsis.” He stretched out his arms and began spinning joyously amid the blooms. “‘The hills are alive with the sound of—’ . . . whoa, getting a little dizzy again.” He staggered back to the road. “And now for our feature presentation.”

  Serge opened the Plymouth’s trunk for his gravestone-rubbing supplies. A brief hike followed. “This is the Ortona Cemetery. It’s hard to imagine now with all the surrounding emptiness, but for a few days in 1928, this was one of the busiest spots in the state. That year’s hurricane was so devastating that it required three mass graves, including this last one.” He placed his oversize sheet of paper against a historical marker and began rubbing. “We’re back in Zora country! Can you dig it?”

  “Uh . . .” said Kyle. “This has been an . . . interesting day.”

  “This is nothing,” said Serge. “I’m getting a familiar tingle in my bones. That means the biggest day of this entire tour is about to dawn and blow your hat off! Come on! . . .”

  Chapter 36

  West Palm Beach

  Captain Crack Nasty grabbed a stuffed wahoo by the tail and ripped it off the wall. He smashed it over and over against the edge of his desk until it was almost dust.

  His treasure business was turning to shit. The losing streak had reached six wreck sites that he had been sure would pay off like slot machines. All he had to show for it was another cannonball. Some of his workers left in frustration, and the rest found a way back to prison.

  He fell in his chair and grabbed a bottle and fumed. He began thinking of an older “can’t miss” treasure site. The one that had slipped through his fingers.

  Crack Nasty had indeed gotten away with that ugly business out at the lake with those three young men. Four years had quickly passed without a knock on his door from the cops.

  But he had also screwed himself.

  Pahokee was too small a town, and he had been too visible. If he wanted to keep getting away with the killings, he had to stay extremely clear of the area. Dammit! Why did he let emotions make business decisions? And after the homework he’d put in. He had been so close he could taste it. He grabbed a nautical map, out of habit, to look for another offshore site. “What’s the point!” He threw it and grabbed the bottle instead.

  The phone rang.

  “Hello? . . . No, I don’t know who this is. . . . Been a long time? You said to call and you’d pay? If you say so. . . . What do you mean, ‘prepare for happiness’? . . . What! Seriously? I’ll be there this afternoon . . .”

  Captain Crack pulled the magnetic door sign off his pickup truck, kicked caution to the curb, and headed west into sugar country.

  Bells jingled extra hard as Crack burst into the pawnshop. “When did it come in?”

  The owner stuck a clarinet on a shelf. “A few weeks ago, but I couldn’t find your business card until this morning.” He reached into the display case for a coin dated 1911.

  Crack held it to his face as waves of dormant greed resurfaced. “Who sold it?”

  “Young girl from the local high school.” The owner pulled out a ledger book. “Her name was Chris something . . . Yeah, here it is. For whatever reason I didn’t get her address, but she plays for the football team.” He scribbled on a sheet of paper.

  Crack laid a stack of hundreds on the counter and snatched the coin. “Remember . . .”

  “I know. You were never here.”

  Bells jingled.

  The owner shook his head. “I will never understand white people.”


  Raising Cane

  The gold Plymouth swung down under the lake and passed a welcome sign: America’s Sweetest Town.

  “This is it,” said Serge. “Clewiston. Epicenter of Florida’s sugar industry. Here we begin our exploration of the southern lake culture, moving on to South Bay, then swinging northeast along the shore. See the plumes of smoke dotting the horizon, as well as these recently burned black fields we’re passing?”

  “We’re familiar with the harvesting process,” said Kyle. Still, it was always a sight, and he and Cheyenne leaned toward the window.

  “Then I’ll tell Coleman,” said Serge. An elbow. “Coleman, you awake?”

  “Just resting my eyelids. They’ve been going all day.”

  “Look alive. We’re in a hallowed place.” He startled everyone by swinging into a convenience store at the last second, and running for the far wall.

  Coleman caught up. “Coffee. What a surprise.”

  Serge shook a small packet and ripped it open. “Know what I’m pouring in my coffee?”

  “Sugar?”

  “History!” He tore open a second packet. “And since I’m in Clewiston, I need a second helping of heritage. From the molasses and rum trade routes to modern-day Florida, the sugar industry has sparked economy and controversy. Back to the car!”

  Moments later, the quartet stood quietly in the middle of a large, gleaming space.

  “Have to hand it to you,” said Cheyenne. “You sure can pick ’em. This is incredible.”

  “The Clewiston Inn? Easy call.” Serge swept an arm through the air. “Now this is a lobby! Other lobbies today are sterile nightmares that disagree with my colon: a few chairs, artificial flowers, rack of tourist pamphlets, and the counter where they lay out the free breakfast, which has been reduced to a plastic bin of Froot Loops where you have to turn a crank like a gumball machine. And then strictly at ten a.m., they actually lock up the Froot Loops! Will the madness never end? But not here! I can’t get enough of a lobby that is a virtual church of varnished dark-wood walls, with the original mail slots behind the vintage counter, antique sofas and bookshelves with more old stuff that makes you want to leave your room just to sit in the middle of bygone days. Check out the hotel’s preserved switchboard next to the fireplace, with the old cables and everything. And this coffee table over here is a glass display case. See those shiny metal things in there that look like a baseball catcher’s shin guards, except if they’d come off a medieval suit of armor? Those are the old sugar cutters’ leg protectors, because back before mechanized harvesting they were working so fast and swinging such sharp machetes to slice down the stalks that they kept hitting their legs, which was no good for anybody. And next to the protector things is one of the ancient cane blades. Notice the size and width of that bastard. If I ever have to attend a machete fight, that’s what I’m bringing.” He marched back to the receptionist’s desk, where they’d just checked in.

  “Sorry to bother you,” said Serge, “but could I trouble you to open up the lounge for me and my friends to see art?”

  “Wait, I remember you.” A smile from behind the counter. “You’re the mural guy.”

  “In some circles.”

  “No problem.” She grabbed keys. “Follow me.”

  The quartet soon stood in another fabulous space, turning slowly to take it in.

  “What do you think?” asked Serge. “Snazzy, eh?”

  “I had no idea,” said Cheyenne, stepping toward a wall to inspect a spoonbill. “I’ve driven by this place a million times but never stopped in because who needs a hotel when you live so close?”

  “The history we most often overlook is in our own backyard.” Serge parted blinds to look out one of the lounge’s windows. “It’s the little things about a small town, and in Clewiston it’s stuff like that bank-style sign by the road, where in any other place the lightbulbs would display time and temperature, but here it’s the lake level, just over fifteen feet. Wow, that’s getting pretty high.”

  Serge pulled out a chair for Cheyenne, and they all sat at a table in the middle of the bar.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Serge zestfully rubbed his hands together. “Our timing here is no accident! I have a surprise! But first an essential background briefing, which is mainly for Coleman . . . Coleman!”

  “Huh? What? Right here.”

  “Can you at least raise your forehead off the table when I’m talking to you?”

  “Crap. Always more work. Just give me a minute . . . Okay, I’m looking at you.”

  “As our journey continues, we’re about to enter a most amazing place.” Serge raised his arms to the heavens. “Some of the hardest-working folk you’ll ever meet, with an astounding sense of family and community. It’s actually two separate small towns ten miles apart on the southeastern shore of Lake Okeechobee—Belle Glade and Pahokee—but they’re collectively referred to as The Muck, from the rich, dark soil—”

  “Wait, what’s the date?” asked Kyle. He checked his cell phone and smiled. “Now I know why your bones were tingling for the biggest day of your tour. The Muck Bowl.”

  “Ding, ding, ding!” said Serge. “We have a winner!”

  “The Muck Bowl?” said Cheyenne. “That’s so cool! I’ve never seen one.”

  Coleman looked left and right at the table. “What’s the Muck Bowl?”

  “Just the biggest high school football game in all of Florida,” said Kyle. “Forget state championships. The rivalry between those two towns is more electric than anything. I played against both teams when I was in school, and they’re unbelievable.”

  Serge nodded. “Go to any Muck Bowl, and a few years later you’re liable to see several players on TV in the NFL.”

  “So you have tickets?” asked Kyle.

  “I was going to pick some up when we got into town.”

  “You can’t just pick up tickets to the Muck Bowl, unless you want to wait in line forever.”

  “What do you suggest?” asked Serge.

  “I know one of the coaches in Pahokee, Lamar Calhoun.” Kyle got out his phone again. “He might be able to hook us up.”

  “Lamar Calhoun?” said Serge. “Why do I know his name?”

  “Because he used to be one of the best blue-chip running backs in all the state.”

  Serge snapped his fingers. “That’s right. He was incredible, one that I would have bet for sure would make the pros. But then nothing. What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” said Kyle. “I wasn’t even born when he graduated, but our fathers were both coaches at opposite ends of the lake, and they became great friends over the years from crossing paths on the circuit. I even met Lamar at his dad’s house a few times when he visited for the holidays. I heard he moved back to coach himself a couple years ago, and I’ve been meaning to call, but you know how that goes.”

  “I remember us having dinner at their house several times when I was a little kid,” said Cheyenne. “Wonderful family.” She turned to her brother. “Did you read where Pahokee has a girl on the team this year?”

  Kyle shook his head, listening to his cell phone before hanging up. “No answer. They must have all left school for the day.”

  “She’s a kicker,” said Cheyenne.

  “Who?” asked Kyle.

  “The girl on the Pahokee squad,” said his sister. “I saw a small thing about it in the paper, so I started following the team this year. I always get a good feeling when I see a girl making those kinds of strides against the odds.”

  Serge nodded. “And I always get a bad feeling when I see Internet trolls babbling that some successful girl is just a token who only made it through favoritism. Give me a break! I’ve been witnessing the behavior of my gender for years. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be a woman in a man’s world?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, well, I don’t,” said Serge. “But I know the burden of the kind of brains we guys have to work with . . .” He grabbed Coleman by the hair and lifte
d his head up off the table again. “Exhibit A.” He lowered the head. “And I can’t believe the crassness I observed directed at women on the street.”

  “And that’s only the stuff that guys like you overhear,” said Cheyenne. “For us, it’s such a perpetual, day-in-day-out gauntlet of leering and vulgar remarks that you eventually become numb.”

  “Coleman and I were discussing the phenomenon the other day,” said Serge. “And I want to offer my deepest proxy apology for the dudes making slurping sounds and calling out anatomy by non-medical names. Personally, it confounds me. Putting the rudeness factor aside for a moment, on the mating level this is also their intelligence audition. It’s like if a guy goes to a supermarket cashier a hundred days in a row and says, ‘I don’t have any money,’ and she says, ‘Then you can’t have any food,’ and he says, ‘Okay, same time tomorrow?’”

  “Did I just start a tangent with you?” asked Cheyenne.

  “Well played,” said Serge.

  “So we’re going to the Muck Bowl,” said Kyle. “I’ll just need to keep trying to reach Coach Calhoun. What in the meantime?”

  Serge flipped open a notepad. “There’s something huge that’s been looming on my Florida bucket list. And now is the perfect opportunity to strike it off.”

  “What is it?” asked Kyle.

  “This one is best left to be revealed in real time . . .”

  An hour later, two flatbed pickup trucks sat on the side of a road with nothing around but a setting sun over vast acreage. Behind the trucks was a gold Plymouth and two people leaning against the fender with folded arms.

  “What do you think they’re doing in there?” asked Cheyenne.

  Kyle covered his mouth as he began to cough from the smoke. “I have a good idea.”

  Serge dashed as fast as he could down the black-dirt rows. He crashed through stalks and dove on the ground over and over. Then running full speed again, smashing through more cane and another dive.

  Exhausted, he rolled over onto his back and lay in the dirt, looked up into a circle of a half-dozen children’s faces. Some of the kids were grasping cottontails. They giggled at Serge and ran off.